Ignorance Is Bliss
by Lady Agatha Hal
Summary: Musings of Dumbledore in the Philosopher’s Stone.


**Ignorance Is Bliss**

**By Lady Agatha Hal**

**(AKA Laala KG)**

DISCLAIMER: you know. J K Rowling's characters, not mine. Savvy?

This is a one-shot from the POV of Albus Dumbledore. It's set in the end of the first book, but will have some spoilers for the fifth.

Some areas are more or less copied out of the end of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. But mostly my text. I know I've changed some things that were said. Forgive. If you don't like, don't read. 

Do not steal. Mine. *narrows eyes and looks around* Savvy??

"Harry, Harry," I was barely aware of saying as I thought over everything Harry should know, has to know, and can't be told by anyone but myself. Mainly, of course, the prophecy. And everything that goes with it. He is far too young. But one's life should never be in another's hands, and yet Harry's seems to be in mine. While Sybil might not remember, I do. I worry that the truth in it will show soon, and I fear the results. 

"Professor?" Harry said reluctantly. I smiled.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Why.. why does Voldemort want me so badly? I mean – there's so many more powerful wizards and he.." he trailed off. I understood his need for more time to weave words, and I became immensely interested in a particular black spot on the white walls. Poppy will not be happy. It will be particularly amusing to watch her growing redder and redder as she scrubs like mad at a tiny speck of black. I smiled again and felt Harry's eye on me. I look down through my spectacles.

"Yes, Harry?" His currently white skin coloured slightly.

"It's just... there are some things I want to know... if you could tell me... things I want to know the truth about..." he trailed off.

"The truth," I sighed deeply, "it is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution–" Of course, not telling him about the prophecy falls under this "–However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie." He was aware of a lot of things around him. Why unveil the things that are invisible to his young eyes? No. The telling of the prophecy to Harry was going to wait.

"Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?" My heart grew heavy with proud burden. 

"Alas, Harry. I cannot say." I felt my back slipping, curving as age started to catch up, small shots of pain near to my shoulder diverting my attention slightly. 

I observed Harry closely; such as I hadn't done since I left him with his only family as a young child. His scar had widened, the evidence of the pain he had inflicted upon Tom. His unruly black hair, damp with sweat, stuck up at odd angles. His eyes, piercing green behind simple black-rimmed glasses stared back and then disentangled themselves from my gaze. His face was white, shock still not worn off. As I watched him, I could see the lines creasing his forehead, aging him, showing his distress. 

"Why did Quirrell burn when I touched him?" he said, eyes deep in thought and showing greater pain than any eyes of the same age, and indeed some a good deal older.

"Love, Harry, is a great element of life," I said, choosing my words carefully. My choice to not declare the prophecy is backed – eleven is too young an age, none should be put towards such a threat, "and while Voldemort learnt many Dark Arts in his years, he lapsed into a common problem for such people – they forget the value of things that seem so simple, yet are more complicated then a spider's web. Voldemort forgot the power of love. Your mother died to protect you, Harry. That in itself is the biggest counter-spell one can possibly do. Your mother's love flows through your blood and courses through your skin. It's a big part of you. That is what protected you, Harry. Voldemort cannot tolerate to be touched by such purity, something so full of good." 

I diverted my eyes once more to the black spot. It was really quite fascinating. The longer I stared at it, the more blurry the edges came, till the white walls and the black edges merged and became a soft grey that seemed to –

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"There's one more thing."

I looked at him again, "is there, now? Just the one, Harry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go right ahead."

"How did I get the Stone from the Mirror?"

I smiled here. Now, that was one of my more brilliant ideas. 


End file.
